


From Ashes

by pointyshades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But That Doesn't Mean She Is A Nice Person, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Mary Is Not An Assassin, Self-Inflicted Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointyshades/pseuds/pointyshades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock comes back, only to discover that John no longer remembers him. But the great detective has never been one to give up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by bitterness_is_a_paralytic's au [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1222438/chapters/2881270). Thank you for allowing me to run with your idea!
> 
> \--
> 
> "There is the possibility, you know, that you will not be welcome." Mycroft speaks as though he is walking on eggshells, as though this delicate sentence will shatter something irrevocably. Sherlock disregards him.  
> "No there isn't."

"An old friend of yours, John?" asks the woman, blonde hair coiffed atop her head, corralled into order just as her words are.

"Don't think so," John answers slowly, uncertainly. "Sorry, mate. I would have remembered a name like yours."

Sherlock can only gape, helpless, at the situation unfolding before him.

"Oh. Oh no," the female says suddenly, comprehension dawning in her eyes. She purses her lips, the corners of them tugged into a frown. "You're the detective. The one who jumped off that building."

"Yes," Sherlock says, because it is all he can say. _Self-inflicted amnesia,_ his thoughts whisper. _Did my departure really hurt you so much, John?_

"Please. Don't make him remember." Her eyes are wide and blue, almost the same shade as John's. "It hurts him so much to remember."

There is no battle plan for this.

 

\---

 

Flames, leaping into the night sky. The stench of gasoline. Sherlock abandons the motorcycle, twisting an ankle as he stumbles awkwardly on the rocky ground. Quickly, quickly, there is no time for pain.

"John!" he shouts, shoving through the crowd. "John!"

Is it a terrified moan he hears from within the tower of burning sticks?

" _John!"_

He burns his hands on coals, scorches the cuffs of his jacket beyond repair, but it is worth it when he hauls his friend out of the flames. There is confusion and pain in John's eyes, and a horrendous burn down one side of his face. Blood trickles from his earlobe.

"You're alright. It's okay, you're alright," Sherlock finds himself repeating, one hand patting John's uninjured cheek. "Stay awake. There's an ambulance coming."

John chokes, coughs, struggles to speak. Sherlock waits until the shorter man can force the words from a smoke-harshed throat. But when the words come, they are not as welcome as Sherlock expects.

"Who - _are_ you?"

Sherlock's face falls.

It is folly to forget something so important, even during the thrill of the chase. To John, his rescuer is not a friend, but a stranger.

"Mary," wheezes John, and Sherlock moves aside to let the woman past. Her small, dainty hands brush against John's face, where Sherlock's tapered fingers rested just a moment ago. She whispers comfortingly into John's ear. Breathing steadying, his eyes flicker closed. Mary leans forward and kisses him on the forehead. As she does it, her eyes dart over and meet Sherlock's.

 _This is one thing you can never do for him,_ her gaze says.

At the hospital, the doctors say that - although painful - the burns will leave no visible scarring. Throughout the diagnosis, Mary stares accusingly at Sherlock, as if the whole ordeal is his fault. Maybe it is. Sherlock is the wolf here, bringing the danger of the outside world with his every step. He used to think John was a wolf, too. Now he is only very small, and very pale, under white hospital bandages and bedsheets.

"I wish you wouldn't talk to him again," says Mary, after. John is sleeping on the cot in the center of the room. Mary's words drop like pebbles into the silence that stretches from wall to wall.

"I just saved his life," Sherlock points out icily.

"Maybe so, but you didn't save it for him. You did it for _you._ And he isn't yours." _  
_

She's right, maybe.

"You think he's still the person you abandoned two years ago, and that you can just pick up where you left off. You weren't the one who eased him through his pain," says Mary, with two red bright spots of angry color in her cheeks. "You didn't see how much he hurt inside, and wish that you could do anything to fix it, all along knowing that you _can't_ fix it, not ever."

"I'm his friend," says Sherlock.

Mary smiles, a thin, furious line of red lipstick. "What kind of friend does what you've done?"

Sherlock can't think of any parting words, but perhaps if he glares hard enough as he is kicked out of John's life, Mary will cease to exist entirely.

 

\---

 

_There is someone named Sherlock, in the shadows of John's mind._

_Sometimes he steps forth during dreams, a tall pale man, and he says things, things that seem so marvelous but that John can never remember when he wakes up._

_After the bonfire, when half of John's face is blistered agony and he can't sleep, he stares at the ceilings and thinks about the past. This is when Sherlock emerges, from the nooks and crevices of his brain. "Here," says the man who is both real and not real, both known and unknown. "Here," he says, and his piercing blue eyes stare through John just as they did in real life, when they met for the first time._

_That was when John lent Sherlock his phone, and the other man said "Afghanistan or Iraq?" and he gave an address, 221b Baker Street. A lab, and a microscope - it all blends together, blurs in John's mind just as he tries to focus on it._

_But that's wrong, isn't it?_

_The first time he met Sherlock was only a week ago, in a darkened restaurant. The curly-haired man strode up to the table, looking cocky and full of himself, and expected John to know who he was. And John didn't know, of course, because it was only the first time they'd spoken. Mary said something about him being a detective.  
_

_But she knew Sherlock - or knew_ of _him, anyway - well enough to go to him for help, when she started getting confusing, ominous texts on her phone. And Sherlock was clever enough to figure out that the texts were skip codes, and that John was in danger. So why doesn't John know him? A famous detective, Mary said.  
_

_It hurts to think about._

_Sherlock must solve cases, if he's a detective. He must show up at crime scenes in his long coat with his collar up, staring down the policemen, daring them to turn him away. He probably pins papers up on his walls and clambers over the sofa to look at them and plays strange, sad songs at night on his violin, with a look in his eye that no one understands, and that no one ever will.  
_

_Why can John see these things in such vivid detail?_

_It hurts so much. His face is burning, and Mary had better close the window because the darkness is coming in, and its name is Moriarty -_

_John_ _jerks awake. His lips are moving but they make no sound, and Mary moves to comfort him whispering that "It's only another nightmare, darling, you're okay. I'm here." And John can't breathe, but he thinks his mouth is saying "Sherlock._ "

 

\---

 

The knock on the door is so perfectly familiar, yet simultaneously so out of place, that Sherlock stops playing the violin with a clatter. He stands, poised, listening to the sound of rubber soles on the stairs. The footsteps are uneven, reluctant, and Sherlock feels that if he so much as breathes too heavily he will blow them out of the flat forever. So he does not move until there is a knock at the door.

"Come in," he says, hurrying to seat himself in his chair. He crosses one leg over the other and puts on an unaffected air just as the door swings open and John steps through. The blonde man looks thoroughly lost, and he's picked up some of his old limp again. But he breathes, and Sherlock breathes, and for the first glorious moment in a long time they are breathing the same flat's air again.

John clears his throat, clenching his left hand by his side. "You, um." Sherlock watches him as he looks away, composing himself. "You said we were friends, once."

Sherlock lets that statement stand, and instead gestures to the armchair across from him. "Please, have a seat."

Uncomfortably, John lowers himself into the chair that was once his. He glances around the flat, taking everything in with the air of it being the first time.

"I'd like some answers," he says.

"Of course you would."

"Some answers...about you."

"I should think so."

"And about - about the fire. Why was I...why did that happen?" John swallows heavily. His fingers are still doing that thing they do when John is anxious, that sort of curling-and-clenching motion. Sherlock feels a sudden, confusing impulse to put his own hand there, where John's fingers struggle to hold onto nothing, and quell the tic with the clasp of his palm.

But there is too much space between them, far too much.

"I don't know," Sherlock has to say. John takes a breath, shakily.

"I remembered you." The blonde man's hand quests up for the bandage that covers half of his face. "I...dreamed. And the address that I dreamed of, well. It was here. Why - " He breaks off.

"One step at a time, John." Sherlock does his best to sound soothing. "Does Mary know you're here?"

"No," John admits, "She doesn't. She doesn't like you very much, I don't think."

Sherlock is silent. It would not be diplomatic to admit that he does not like Mary very much, either. Even now, alone in the room with John, he can feel Mary's influence. He can smell her perfume on John, just faintly, can read her presence in the folds of John's shirt and the wrinkling at his collar. His mind paints a scenario of her, with John, erasing memories of Sherlock and filling in the spaces with her own gentle touch. _This is one thing you can never do for him._

The atmosphere in the room is not quite companionable, but it is a shade less than outright discomfort. A small victory, thinks Sherlock. He scans John, cataloging every detail about him that has changed, mentally comparing with the template of John he has in a room of his mind palace. Is his hair a bit greyer in the light? Are those new creases at the corners of his eyes? He's taken up cycling.

"Listen," says John finally, "If you don't have anything to tell me...I mean, not that I'm trying to be rude, but it seems rather odd that you should show up, start claiming to know me, Mary gets all worried - Yes, she's worried, I can tell," he says loudly, cutting Sherlock off before he can interject. "And she's worried about you, and for some reason about me. And maybe she's right, because hell, you show up at my date with Mary and then next week you pull me out of a bonfire. I certainly don't remember doing anything that would get me thrown in a bonfire." His mouth quirks up in a little angry smile, the way it always does. "So I hope you can give me _something_ more than 'I don't know.'"

"Self-inflicted amnesia," says Sherlock.

"What about it?"

"You have it."

John rocks back ever so slightly in his chair, mouth twisting in the way that it does when something takes him by surprise. His fingers twitch again. "No," he shakes his head, "I don't. I don't think - why would I do that?"

"Subconsciously."

"Why?"

Sherlock cannot offer any answers, because he did not in a million years expect that his absence could shake John to the point of blocking out his own memories. No contingency planned for the idea that John would just shove Sherlock away, lock him in some forgotten corner of his mind and let that be the end of it. If he tries to explain this now, John will not understand. Probably he will not believe Sherlock, and then he will leave, this time forever. Sherlock cannot afford this. Not when he has evidence that some part of John, at least, wants to remember.

"What would that have to do with the fire, anyway? Am I secretly a criminal?" John laughs, but it has a hint of rough discomfort. "I can't believe I'm saying these things out loud, and you're giving them serious consideration. You're not giving them serious consideration, are you? Me finding this address in a dream, or having forgotten being a criminal?" He's rambling, Sherlock notes. John always rambles when he's nervous.

"You're not a criminal, John."

The blonde raises his eyebrows. "Well, cheers to that," he says sarcastically. "What am I?"

"My friend." Sherlock's voice is quiet. John looks away.

The clock on the mantelpiece loudly marks the passing of three seconds and the silence is just getting long enough, just uncomfortable enough that someone might choose to say something when John's mobile buzzes. He stands from his chair with something close to a sigh of relief, pulling the phone from his pocket. "Mary? Yeah, I'm...just out getting the shopping. I'll be back soon, promise. Yeah, love you. Bye."

The blonde tucks the phone back into his cardigan, shrugging. He cannot look Sherlock in the eyes. "Sorry, I've got to go."

"You haven't got all the answers you came for," says Sherlock. He has a sudden nagging feeling that if John leaves now, he won't come back.

"No, I haven't," mumbles John, and the door is far too close to him from Sherlock's perspective. It is with a dreadful ease that John takes two steps and his hand is on the doorknob, rotating it, opening the way out of the flat. Sherlock watches, looking impassive, but inwardly his mind runs through possibilities. It's not overly likely, given John's reluctance to trust people, that he will return after this meeting. There must be something Sherlock can do, yet he scrambles mentally and comes up empty. Sentiment has always been his weakness. He is left to drum his fingers on the arm of his chair and fake a smile at John's retreating back.

But John turns, just as he puts one foot on the stairs.

"You solve crimes." His voice has pain in it.

"Yes," says Sherlock.

" _We_ solved crimes."

"Yes," repeats Sherlock, although he notes the use of the past tense.

"And I...blogged about it?"

Sherlock smiles, genuinely this time. "Yes." John remains in the doorway, brow furrowed, for another moment. One hand is pressed to the wood of the door frame as if through its hard lines he will be able to absorb the truth. He can't, of course, merely departs with a perplexed look and an unreadable emotion in his eyes. Sherlock isn't sure if John is satisfied with the information he just received. He doesn't know if the blonde even believes it or not.

But either way, Sherlock thinks John may be returning after all.


	2. Matrimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Believe your subconscious, John,” says Sherlock urgently. “You know the difference between reality and dreams. You are experiencing in sleep what your waking mind has locked away. Isn’t it obvious?”

“For god’s sake, Mary,” says John, “Is there anything left to plan? We’ve done tablecloths, napkins, dresses – and by the way, I was fine with the bridesmaids in purple – ”

“Lilac,” says Mary.

“ – So aren’t we done? Let me just print off some of these invitations, and then later we can figure out exactly who we’re going to send them to.”

Mary is frowning. “Why not figure it out now, so that we can be sure not to print any extras?”

John shrugs. “Maybe an extra or two would be useful, in case something happens.”

“Something like what?”

John fails to muster an adequate response. He mumbles something about tea and heads for refuge in the kitchen, but now Mary has a hard glint in her eye.

“You’re not planning on inviting _Sherlock Holmes_ to our wedding, are you?”

“What? No!” splutters John, caught like a deer in the headlights. That is exactly what he was planning. “No – no. I’m not. No.”

“Are you sure?” asks Mary, folding her arms. She tilts her head slightly, surveying John, giving him the unnerving feeling that she can see right through him. It reminds him of Sherlock, for a moment, and he doesn’t know why.

“I’ll make tea,” says John after a long moment. Again, his flight to the kitchen is stopped by a clearing of Mary’s throat.

“Seriously, John, you’ve been out of it ever since he showed up. You’re always staring off into the distance, I have to constantly get your attention. Your nightmares have started again.”

“They’re not – ” begins John, but stops, because if they’re not nightmares he doesn’t know what to call them. Vivid, maybe. Like fragments of the past slipping through a sieve, falling into place in John’s mind as if they fit there precisely. It’s the fitting that bothers John the most; after he wakes, the dream slots into his head like a memory. He has to stop himself sometimes from referring to his dreams as things that have really happened.

He’s had five of them since Sherlock turned up.

Mary is quiet, frowning slightly, the corners of her red-painted lips tugged down. John has been silent for too long. He realizes that he is doing exactly what Mary has just accused him of: staring into space and thinking of Sherlock.

“It’s not him,” John says finally. “It’s just…wedding jitters. I’m sorry, Mary, I am. It’s all the planning that’s getting to me, I think. Choosing types of cake all day is enough to get to anyone,” he jokes. It falls flat.

Mary clearly does not believe him, but like the good person that she is, she sighs and lets it go. John feels terrible, lying to her like this. His wife-to-be. Why would he choose to hurt her, just so he could invite a strange man to his wedding? Sherlock probably won’t even attend. John isn’t sure he wants him to.

“We’ll print some extras.” Mary’s voice is disappointed. “Just...I can trust you, can’t I, John?”

“Of course you can,” says John, shocked. “Of course you can, Mary.”

Mailing the invites later, John looks sourly at the envelope with Sherlock’s name on it and wonders if he was telling the truth.

 

\---

 

No one writes to Sherlock. The only social calls he performs are those to crime scenes. So when Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs with an envelope in her hand and a smile on her face, Sherlock is understandably confused.

“Sherlock, dear, something came for you in the post! Maybe this will cheer you up,” tuts Mrs Hudson. “You’ve been awfully down lately.”

“Give me that,” mutters Sherlock, waving a hand for the envelope where he lies on the sofa. He disregards Mrs Hudson’s distraught attitude, but snatches the stiff paper from her fingers and makes obnoxious shooing motions until she leaves the room.

It is not until she has left that he opens the envelope. The card inside is on thick, creamy stationary. It is printed with gold lettering. But – unusually enough – Sherlock fails to make these observations at first, because he is stuck on the words that are formed by the golden font.

 _John’s getting married,_ is his first thought.

 _Why did he invite me?_ is his second. He doesn’t move for a while, thinking about everything and nothing at all. This was not a move he anticipated from John. Then again, neither was amnesia.

At last, when he gets up, it is to search the flat for cigarettes. There are none.

He burns the invitation instead, hating himself because he knows he will attend.

 

\---

 

_The morning is bright and cold, and harsh light slices in through the blinds to draw stripes across the floor. It is chilly in the flat. John's fingers curl around the handle of his warm coffee mug and he watches Sherlock pensively._

_The woman is there. Her hair is not piled atop her head as usual; instead, it hangs loosely about her shoulders, curls still damp. She is dressed minimally, but her cheekbones are rosy. Even in a state of seeming disarray, Irene Adler's makeup manages to be immaculate._

_She is standing beside Sherlock, her shoulder brushing his, her lips murmuring something against his ear._

_John brings his coffee mug to his mouth._

_"I would have you here on this table until you begged for mercy twice."_

_John's mug hits the table, a bit harder than he intended. Sherlock's eyes flicker between the woman and John. The detective’s long, thin fingers are clutching a phone, a phone with an essential email on it. His mouth is slightly open, about to rattle off one of his deductions. His skin is pale alabaster, lit from the side by the sun, and his eyes glitter iridescently. In this moment, he is the most beautiful thing in the world, and John is absolutely, irrefutably jealous of Irene Adler._

_In the next moment, John is awake in his bed, eyes snapping open to the darkness of the room. Mary's arm is across his chest, and he tries to breathe, tries to blink away the images - memory? fantasy? - that cling to the inside of his eyelids._

_It can’t be real. None of it can._

_It takes him a long time to get back to sleep._

 

\---

 

"Well, well. Who is this lonely man, who attends a wedding only to sit in the back pew and sneak out when it's over?" Her voice is loud, but amused.

Sherlock stops with one hand on the doorknob, rolling his eyes to himself. Slowly, he turns around, fixing his accuser with the kind of stare that usually silences the most determined of dimwits.

The woman before him smiles, seemingly unaffected. "Oh, there's no need to be grouchy!" she grins.

"You're the maid of honor," Sherlock observes.

"Yes, but I've also got a name. Janine." She sticks her hand out. When Sherlock makes no move to shake it, she raises an eyebrow. "Antisocial much?"

"Merely not a fan of idiots," mumbles Sherlock.

"Then I guess I’d better keep from being one," the brunette laughs. "What’s your name?”

Sherlock tugs his coat more closely around him. Janine looks him in the eye, and something about the way she's standing suggests she isn't going to let the matter rest. Sherlock sighs.

"Sherlock Holmes." This revelation prompts a widening of Janine's eyes, a look of slow recognition dawning.

"Of course!" she exclaims, looking him up and down. "The detective! I knew you looked familiar, but I just couldn't place you!" She grins, bouncing slightly on her feet. "That's right, you were just acquitted and everything. And after faking your death...god, what I'd give to know how you did it!"

She's a reporter, of course. Sherlock's eyes pick up the shape of her fingers and the tiniest smudge of ink on her wrist. "What are you doing attending weddings instead of crimes? Shouldn't you be out there with your partner - oh, what was his name? James...Jim...?" There's something in her face, a hardness behind her eyes, that makes Sherlock think that she knows exactly who she's talking about. Working in the media, there's no way she wouldn't be at least marginally aware.

Sherlock remains silent, glaring.

"Oh," says Janine finally, as if she's come to a realization. "Oh. John. John Watson. I’m sorry.” She glances behind her, as if checking for the person in question. "What happened?"

"You mean Mary hasn't told you?" asks Sherlock, bitterly.

"No," and this time Sherlock does believe Janine. "Did you two have a falling-out? Oh, he probably couldn't stand that you faked your death, right? You two were very close, after all."

"There wasn't a falling-out."

"Then what? Why are you, one of his closest friends, lurking in the background of his wedding without even a word?"

Silence from Sherlock.

"Is someone going to be murdered?"

"No."

Janine laughs, lightly, as if she's finally noticing the tension in Sherlock's stance. Her smile is delicate, and has the feel of a deliberate attempt to defuse the situation. "Well, I'm glad for that," she says.

"I'm not," says Sherlock. He leaves the maid of honor with a look of confusion on her face.

 

\---

 

The reception is evidently a great success, if one can judge from the music that floats irritatingly out to where Sherlock is sitting on a worn bench. He crosses his legs, one over the other, and scowls into the rapidly darkening evening. He wants John's wedding to be a happy occasion, he does. But the sour conversation with Janine is still turning over in his head and Sherlock can’t help but think that tonight may be the last time he sees John.

Angry with himself for being so sentimental, he flips his collar up against the chill. For early September, it’s startlingly cold out. A harsh wind seems to thrust right through the fabric of Sherlock’s coat, fixing him to the bone. The gust rustles the leaves of the trees around him.

A twig cracks somewhere, some small animal making its way back to its home.

Sherlock thinks that he should probably be making his own way to Baker Street, but somehow the flat doesn’t seem very appealing. He knows John will not be there. Probably John will never be there again. Bitterly, Sherlock supposes that this will give him more room for experiments. He can store as many toes in the freezer as he wants and no one will complain. He could probably get away with having cadavers in the kitchen, at least until Mrs Hudson noticed the smell. This should make him happy, or at least professionally pleased, but it does not.

Why does John have to get married?

Why did John have to forget Sherlock? is a better question. The detective already knows the answer to that one, even if he tries to deny it. The only logical explanation is that John was so hurt by Sherlock’s supposed death that he simply refused to think of it again.

But that can’t be right. Sherlock never thought John would be upset. Angry, perhaps, and when Sherlock returned he’d get a few slaps and then they’d go back to solving crimes as always. John should have been overjoyed to see him seemingly returned from the grave. But instead, this.

Sherlock supposes it is bittersweet recompense that John must have cared enough for Sherlock’s “death” to hurt him.

A twig cracks, again, closer. Something about the sound gives Sherlock pause. He turns his head, just slightly, and sees a figure out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s a bit rude to leave the reception early,” says John.

“I should think the transgression would be magnified for the groom,” replies Sherlock.

John steps forward, into Sherlock’s line of sight. His suit is crisp, his wedding ring polished, and his face decidedly unhappy. “I’m not leaving,” he says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than Sherlock. “I’m going back in a minute.”

Sherlock surveys the trees. The bench creaks slightly as John sits beside him. When Sherlock glances over, John’s hands are clenched together and his hunched shoulders are the picture of anxiety. The blonde purses his lips and frowns into the deepening darkness, obviously working up to something. Sherlock waits. He will always wait.

“Why did you come?” asks John eventually, staring up at the branches overhead.

“One finds it difficult to turn down such a wonderfully crafted wedding invitation. Hamish, indeed.”

John snorts. “God, please don’t. I hate that name. Mary made me put it on the invites.”

“It was a good decision. Funnier that way,” remarks Sherlock.

A chuckle. Sherlock risks looking at the man seated beside him; John’s face is turned, his eyes crinkling in a familiar way. His mouth slants upward at the corners. Something stirs inside Sherlock, something that wonders at the fact that he has been able to make John laugh even when they share no memories. But the moment is short-lived, as greater concerns darken John’s expression, wipe the smile from his face.

“Who’s the woman?” he asks, sliding his wedding ring on and off his finger.

Sherlock looks blank. There is no one around, only him and John and the gently swaying trees. “What woman?”

“No. _The_ woman.”

“Oh.” Sherlock pauses, processing this information. Before the detective can speak again, John rushes to continue, his words tumbling headlong, as if he will never be able to get them out if he doesn't say them right now.

“I dreamed about her, too. And you. Were you…I mean, did you and her…?” John struggles with the words, refuses to look Sherlock in the eye.

“She was a criminal of the best variety, smart and devious and talented. But in the end, she got too involved in the game. She lost.” Sherlock shrugs. “I won.”

“What happened?”

“You were there. Don't you recall?”

John stiffens. When he speaks again, his words are carefully chosen, his voice taut. “If I had been there, I would remember.”

“What do you suppose your dreams are?”

“I don't know. But they're not - not that.” He moves to get up, but Sherlock snatches at his wrist, catches it. John jerks to face him, and suddenly they are only inches apart.

“Believe your subconscious, John,” says Sherlock urgently. “You know the difference between reality and dreams. You are experiencing in sleep what your waking mind has locked away. Isn’t it obvious?”

John wrenches his wrist away. “I don’t know what the hell _obvious_ means, with you involved.” Standing a safe distance from Sherlock, he brushes at the sleeve of his suit jacket, removing the invisible mark of the detective’s grip. “I’d best be getting back. I don’t know why I invited you. I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish.”

“Only what you would want, John.”

“I don’t know that I do want it.”

There is no good response to that.

 

\---

 

Morning is cool and damp at Baker Street. Sherlock wakes abruptly, as if some noise has attracted his sleeping attention, but nothing unnatural breaks the near-silence of the flat. A window has been left open, and a light breeze blows through, accounting for the chill in the room. Condensation speckles the windowpane.

Sherlock rolls over, untangling himself from his sheets. What time is it? His eyes flick to a clock on the wall, registering the numbers. Half past ten. A reasonable hour, considering that Sherlock did not fall into bed until well past midnight the night before. The aftermath of the wedding – and the subsequent conversation with John – had left Sherlock’s mind too busy to rest. Experimenting on frog tongues until the early hours of the morning was an alternative to rubbing his brain raw with thinking.

By this time, Sherlock muses, John would usually be up. He would have already eaten, but would leave coffee for Sherlock. He’d be sitting at the table downstairs with the newspaper, hair wet from the shower. Scoffing mentally at himself, Sherlock drives all thoughts of John from his head. It’s over. The end of an era. Maybe Molly will solve crimes with him instead.

His mobile buzzes.

Sherlock checks the number – it’s unfamiliar. But the text’s author is not.

_Coffee tomorrow – tell me about Baskerville._

_-John Watson_

Sherlock can’t suppress an incredulous smile as he picks up the phone, tapping the screen with long, musician’s fingers.

_Can’t wait. SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my beta reader, and to all of you!


	3. Subconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock blinks once, slowly, feeling John’s presence seeming to slide toward him, like molasses. Smooth and slow. There is all the time in the world.

The world is a muzzy swirl of dim light and sound. Sherlock is very tired and there is a warm, comfortable feeling tingling in his extremities. But something is nagging at him, something important, and so he forces himself to surface. When he blinks, his eyelids seem to clap like thunder.

He is awake. Sherlock reassures himself that this is true, even though the room is still rotating slightly beneath him. But it is a friendly kind of rotation, he thinks, not bad at all. Familiar, even. Not so familiar is the musty mattress he is lying on. Above him, the ceiling is stained with water damage and other, less identifiable blotches. Sherlock counts the stains, quiet and relaxed. There are thirty-two. He is very happy with this fact, and runs it through his mind several times for emphasis.

No, there is something he should be doing.

He sits up. The room shifts wildly beneath him, but he grips the edges of the mattress and rides it out as if it were a storm. There are three other individuals in the room; two sleeping, the third vaguely awake. The conscious one has ruffled brown hair and a sleepy look on his face, as if he is barely clinging to the waking world. He clutches a spoon in one hand and a lighter in the other. There are grains of something tan spilled on his jumper, and his eyes are lidded and dark.

“Hey, mate,” mumbles the junkie – because even in his addled state, Sherlock knows what the man is – with a rough gesture. “Did your phone ring? You were sayin’ something ‘bout it earlier.”

Oddly enough, it is the junkie’s slurred words that finally spur Sherlock’s memory. He rummages clumsily through his coat pockets until he can find his phone, sliding it out with fingers that noticeably shake. When the screen lights up, he winces from the glow.

It is 1:17. Right now, across town, Sherlock is supposed to be having coffee with John Watson.

“Damn,” he mutters, fingers darting across the screen to open a new text. There is no way he can make it to the café on time. There is also no good excuse he can use to stave off John’s questions. Probably this is because Sherlock is high, and his brain isn’t working properly.

Why did he do this again? he asks himself as he types. Something about a big fish, a shark. Magnussen. Yes, Sherlock needs to get his drug habit in the papers so that the blackmailing tycoon will believe he has a pressure point on the detective.

_John – sorry. Will miss coffee.. another time? Sh_

He bites his lip, bounces the phone in his hand as he waits for a response.

“Did your mate call?” asks the junkie. Sherlock glares at him, but the man is too calm to care. “You looked pretty worked up about it, after you got here. What’s up with ‘im?”

“Nothing,” says Sherlock.

“Well, I was just wonderin’. You know, it’s not every day you see a guy come in here cares ‘bout somethin’ other than the drugs.”

The phone buzzes.

_Why, what’s happened? Where are you?_

Sherlock sighs, thinking. It gives him an annoying feeling in the back of his mind, like he’s trying to scratch an itch that doesn’t exist. He wishes he could just go back to sleep.

_Case. Unavailable Right now. Sorry SH_

_Any reason why you’re typing like that?_

_In cab, rough driving. Hard to pick out letter. Coffee tomorrow instead? H_

There is a long pause, during which the junkie tries one more time to start a conversation. Sherlock nips that in the bud by standing, pulling his coat about himself, and fixing the man with his most intimidating stare. Finally, the witless junkie seems to realize that his strange customer would rather be left alone. With a huff, he leans back again, his eyes unfocusing and staring into space.

_Don’t know if I can do tomorrow. Mary wants to go out shopping._

Sherlock grits his teeth, wobbling his way down the rickety stairs of the building. He’s been here long enough for Magnussen to pick up on it. Time to get out before Mycroft notices.

_Shopping less important. Tell her to pick up groceries herself. SH_

Sherlock misses a step and shouts incoherently into the quiet house. There is rage bubbling within him, anger that he has missed coffee with John, fury that the opportunity seems to be slipping away from him now. But Magnussen is important, too important. Damn him.

All Sherlock cares about is getting John Watson back.

Right now, separated from his logic by the drug, he can fully admit that to himself.

_Not shopping for groceries, you idiot. Baby clothes. Mary’s pregnant._

The bottom drops out of Sherlock’s world.

He sits, halfway down the steps, and stares at his phone as if it will provide all the answers to his confusion. Mary is what? Why? In the back of his head, a Mycroft-esque voice is admonishing Sherlock that yes, that is what married couples do, they get pregnant, but Sherlock ignores it. His throat is choked with an emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Now he has absolutely, undeniably lost John Watson.

_Sherlock? You still there? Maybe I can make Sunday, if that’s alright with you?_

_Sherlock?_

 

\---

 

Apparently, Sherlock had forgotten how awful it is coming down off a high.

Also, he has underestimated Mycroft’s powers of observation. Damn it all.

The man in question is currently seated before Sherlock in the chair that used to be John’s, his hands folded mockingly across his stomach. An ugly – by Sherlock’s reckoning, although Mycroft seems to love it dearly – umbrella is propped up against the arm of the chair. It is still damp with rain from outside, although there is a spreading wet spot on the carpet beneath the umbrella’s tip. Mycroft never ventures outside in the rain. It is because of this that Sherlock knows he has severely concerned his brother.

He seriously wishes he hadn’t.

“Really,” Mycroft is saying, “I have no idea what possessed you to get yourself into a situation where you might be pressured to return to…old habits. It was incredibly irresponsible of you. I personally am ashamed. Need I monitor you at every hour to be assured that you are not out on the streets, attempting to throw your life away?”

“You need not monitor me at all, Mycroft,” mutters Sherlock. “As I keep telling you, it was for a case, and it was just this once. I’m done.”

“Would you mind telling me what kind of case could possibly require this kind of behavior?”

Sherlock is icily silent. He despises getting Mycroft involved with any cases of his; as useful as his older brother can be, his overbearing intelligence is incredibly annoying, and his hatred of legwork is just plain lazy.

“Is this about John Watson?” Mycroft’s voice is brittle with irritation. “I warned you that he might not want you back – that was the best I could do in letting you know he had forgotten it all. And if – ”

“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” says Sherlock, and his brother is silent. A few moments elapse, during which Sherlock watches a raindrop crawl down the windowpane and deduces that his human toe experiment is about ready to be thrown out; it’s not yielding the results that he wanted, and it’s starting to smell.

“What are you doing with that man?” Mycroft finally asks. Sherlock relishes the look of vague concern on his face before he responds.

“He is a blackmailer and a despicable human being. What do you think I’m doing, Mycroft?”

“I cannot allow you to.”

“Oh, why not?” Sherlock sneers.

“He never causes more harm than is sustainable, and he is occasionally useful. You must leave Charles Augustus Magnussen alone.”

“I must do nothing of the kind.”

Mycroft stands, picking up his umbrella and looking down his nose at Sherlock. He must have practiced that expression in a mirror at some point, because it is cultivated into the perfect combination of disdain and vague disappointment.

“Magnussen is under my protection, Sherlock,” he says as he leaves. “If you go against him, you will have to go against me.”

“I tremble at the thought,” replies Sherlock sarcastically.

Mycroft pauses and turns in the doorway. He taps his umbrella once on the ground, and says in a thoughtful voice – as if it had only just occurred to him, although Sherlock knows that nothing of the sort is true, “You never did answer my question about John.”

“I don’t shoot up for John Watson,” says Sherlock. Mycroft raises one eyebrow, and the door clicks shut.

\---

_They meet in a laboratory of sorts. John is sure of this now._

_He remembers the other man’s gaze, looking him over, reading everything in a glance. ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ – he remembers that too, and he is certain of its truth._

_He remembers later, the next day, running through the streets together. Laughing up against a wall in their newly-shared flat, breath hard and fast in their throats. In John’s dream – no, in his memory –Sherlock’s laugh is a deep chuckle, smooth and rich. The two of them look at each other, the ex-soldier and the consulting detective. Something draws them together._

_John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder. There are words; he thinks there are words. But all he can remember is the slow, inevitable attraction, the moment when they finally touch and then everything that matters is Sherlock Holmes._

_In his dream, this is what happens. No, in his memory._

_Is it a memory?_

_John is used to these thoughts, now. The transgressions of Sherlock into his dreams are expected, and with every nightly appearance the detective becomes further ingrained upon his mind. It is in his dreams that John is very certain of how everything works, how it has always worked._

_Him and Sherlock. Just the two of them against the rest of the world._

_When he wakes up, he can never remember quite so well. Fragments are all he gets; pieces of Baskerville, scraps of Mycroft Holmes. But mostly he gets bits of Sherlock, everywhere, clogging up the machinery of his mind with misplaced images and questions._

_One morning, John wakes up and he remembers kissing Sherlock Holmes._

_His memories – no, his dreams – are so spotty that he lets the idea stay._

 

\---

 

“So, you, um. Solved any interesting cases lately?” John takes a sip of his coffee, the hot liquid clearly burning his tongue, but he doesn’t show a visible reaction. Interesting, thinks Sherlock. John is schooling himself against revealing emotion, then.

The detective shrugs. His own coffee is cooling on the café table before him. He would have preferred not to order any – he would have preferred not to meet in a café at all – but John would have been uncomfortable. Sherlock needs a reason to be here. His Styrofoam cup is one such justification.

“How is…your brother?” John is obviously reaching for conversation topics here. His face scrunches up as he asks the question, as if he realizes its inanity.

“You remember Mycroft, then?” asks Sherlock lightly.

“I, yeah. I guess.” It is a reassurance, that John is able to admit even indirectly that his memories may be truthful. “He’s not a friendly bloke, is he?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then yeah. I think I’ve got something.” John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He hasn’t met Sherlock’s gaze in twenty-six seconds. It is an unusually long period of time to stare at a cup of coffee.

Sherlock crosses one leg over the other. There are several other customers in the café, sipping their drinks with bland faces and a minimum of expression. Sherlock envies them their lack of pretense. He must put on a show of normalcy for John. So he deliberately picks up his beverage and takes a long sip.

“How’s Mary?”

Something flashes across John’s face. It is gone in an instant. “She’s doing well,” says the blonde man. “Very well. Ecstatic, of course. About the baby. It’s a wonderful surprise.”

“So you didn’t plan for it.”

A pause. “No. But we’re both very, very happy and Mary is getting on just fine.” There is something of determination in the way John says the words. As if to say otherwise would be to yield ground.

Yield ground to what? Sherlock can only analyze the way John’s eyes flicker away, to the table, to the window.

“I’m surprised that I didn’t deduce it first,” says Sherlock, breaking the tension. “After all, I do have far greater powers of observation than you.” He forces a smile of sorts.

John chuckles. “Yes, well. I’m the bloody doctor here, let’s not forget. It’s my job to notice those sorts of things.” He takes another sip of steaming coffee. “And you’ve met her all of three times.”

“It usually only takes one time.”

John shrugs. “Mary’s the exception to a lot of things.” Again, that strange flash of tightness across his face.

They sit in silence for a while after that. Sherlock watches as the level of coffee in John’s cup gradually lowers. Every so often he takes a sip of his own beverage, timing himself so that he drinks just often enough to be believable.

The café’s walls are painted a welcoming shade of yellow. The lights overhead are warm and round, causing the patrons of the establishment to cast blurry shadows on the tiled floor. Sherlock analyzes every other person in the room at least twice before he turns to John again.

“Do you know why you don’t remember me?” he asks.

John shakes his head haltingly. “I don’t – I remember some things.”

“What things?” Sherlock leans forward.

John, in an unconscious motion, leans back.

“What sorts of things do you remember? Do they occur to you in any sort of chronological order?” Sherlock steeples his hands before him, fingertips pressing against his lips. “Do you still only recall things in your dreams, or at more frequent intervals?”

John shakes his head. “I remember…isolated incidents. I guess chronologically. I don’t really know. Sometimes I’ll think I can see something in…great detail, and other times I only have a vague feeling. I don’t think – I don’t remember forgetting you. If that makes any sense.” He still has his eyes fixed on the table in a willful effort not to look up. Sherlock doesn’t know what John thinks is going to happen, if he looks up.

“You said you remembered Baskerville.” Sherlock has to prod John along, keep him talking before his face closes up again.

“I – something about hounds. You poisoned me, and there was a hound.” John is shaking his head as he speaks, frowning. “No, that isn’t right. You wouldn’t poison me. That isn’t what happened, is it?”

Sherlock regards John. “That certainly isn’t all that happened.”

And for some reason, that statement makes John pale. The shorter man focuses on his coffee again, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock watches him and cannot deduce the source of his agitation.

“But you did poison me,” says John finally. “And you sent the hound after me? With the poison, somehow? I’m sorry, it’s so – vague.”

“I didn’t poison you.” It’s the truth. Sherlock only wishes it was not also a misdirection.

“Yeah? Well, you see, Sherlock, that’s the problem. Because I remember some things so vividly, and they turn out not to be real. And other things I don’t remember, and you tell me they are.” John bites his lip and makes a brief, frustrated gesture. “It’s so clear to me, the poison, me shivering in a cage with that red-eyed hound coming at me and knowing you were responsible. But you’re telling me that’s not how it happened.”

“It’s not, John.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock has to say something to break the silence that is brewing around the two of them, dark and menacing. He feels as though John has been talking about two things at once for the past few minutes, and he doesn’t know what the second thing is. So he clears his throat and takes a slow sip of his coffee before speaking.

“Do you want to come on a case with me sometime?” asks Sherlock. The question surprises even him; surely that isn’t what he meant to say. John looks up, startled.

“D’you want me to?” asks the blonde.

“If you’re so inclined,” responds Sherlock delicately.

“Mary wouldn’t want me to.”

Sherlock dares to ask, “Are you only Mary, now?”

John doesn’t answer, but Sherlock sees the tiny, almost involuntary shake of his head. “I’ll text you,” says the detective. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

“I’ll think about it,” says John.

You certainly will, thinks Sherlock, but does not say it aloud. Instead he leaves the café in a swirl of coat fabric and a strange mix of feelings tightening his chest. He cannot name any of the feelings, nor does he want to. He leaves his coffee sitting on the table.

 

\---

 

Laughter is a foreign feeling to Sherlock. It carries on the air, breathless, like a cool breeze. Overhead, the sky is velvety with a sprinkling of stars. The moon is a bright circle amongst the darkness.

“God, Sherlock, I _cannot believe_ you did that,” wheezes John through a fit of giggling. He is doubled over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. His closeness sends a warm feeling through the detective. “That man had you, he did! I thought we were done for sure!”

Sherlock’s own chuckle rumbles in his throat. “I am fully capable of escaping a headlock, John, I thought you knew.”

John straightens, and his face is only inches from Sherlock’s. For a moment it is as if there is no space between them. Sherlock blinks once, slowly, feeling John’s presence seeming to slide toward him, like molasses. Smooth and slow. There is all the time in the world.

John pulls away, and Sherlock realizes that they were never even touching.

The shorter man clears his throat and looks down. “Escaping a headlock,” he repeats, dragging the conversation back into safely platonic bounds. “That’s one thing. But I wasn’t exactly expecting you to jump out the window.” If his laugh is a little forced now, a little rough, Sherlock chooses to ignore it.

Sherlock stares at John in the darkness, his own lips twitching at the sight of John’s curled into a grin. It is so refreshing, to see John smiling and know that he is the reason. “’Vatican cameos,’ remember? You should have been prepared.”

John’s smile stiffens. “I don’t know what that means.”

Sherlock pauses, letting the cool night air widen the gap between them. Far away, a dog barks fitfully. The street where he and John stand is empty. The houses are full of darkened windows.

“It’s late,” observes John finally. Sherlock wishes he could put a hand out and somehow stop the last of John’s smile from fading off his face.

“So it is. We should turn in the evidence we’ve gathered. Gilligan will be pleased.”

“Gilligan?”

“Graham.”

John still looks bewildered. Sherlock takes a breath in exasperation. “Geoff.”

The blank face persists.

Sherlock bites his lip. “Greg. I know his name is Greg, John. You don’t have to frown at me.”

John’s expression is hard to read in the darkness, but there is a hollow note in his voice when he finally responds that hits Sherlock hard. The detective has forgotten once again, blundered over the line of John’s memories. “I don’t know who Greg is, Sherlock.” _Idiot_ , the taller man berates himself.

“Lestrade?” The hopeful note in Sherlock’s own voice disgusts him. He turns away before John can respond. “Never mind, I’ll take it to him. Mary will be missing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my faithful beta-er, and to all of you, for reading! Comments are appreciated.


	4. Tiptoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John feels with all the intensity of an awkward teenager. The streets flash by outside, and he and Sherlock make eye contact one too many times within a span of time. Then, as if in accord, they both turn to look out the windows, their casual conversation dying out._
> 
>  
> 
> _On the ratty cushions of the cab, hands crawl towards each other._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sherlock’s skin is cold, as John expected. The two of them twine their fingers together and John’s heart beats like it’s going to jump out of his chest._

The second step of taking Magnussen down is his secretary.

Sherlock remembers Janine from the wedding. At first, she looks at him with a blank face, but recognition dawns as she sits in the booth across from Sherlock.

“Thank you for coming,” says the detective, solemn. He leans forward slightly, sculpting his expression into a nervous smile. In order to accomplish this next step, he will have to convince Janine that he is relationship material. That means no sociopathy.

“I wouldn’t turn down a free meal,” jokes Janine. She tucks a curl of brown hair behind her ear. “Especially not from a place like this. Gee, you sure don’t kid around, do you, Mr. Holmes?”

It is reassuring that she recalls his name. A sign of attraction, perhaps. “I prefer to dine in comfort,” says Sherlock, dismissing the fancy restaurant with a wave of his hand. “I thought you would like the same.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure.” Smiling comes easily to Janine, Sherlock can tell. “But would you mind telling me, if this isn’t too abrupt, why you’ve invited me here? I mean, we only just met at Mary’s wedding – by the way, I still don’t know what you were doing there – ”

“It’s not too abrupt,” interrupts Sherlock, schooling his face into another smile. He glances deliberately away to cultivate a shy attitude. “I just, well. I wanted to apologize for how odd I was being at the wedding.”

“Apologize?”

“Well, yes. You seem like a very kind woman, and you didn’t deserve my obnoxious treatment.”

“So you took me out to dinner.” There is bemusement on Janine’s face, now, and Sherlock is struck with uncertainty.

“Well, yes,” he says, making an attempt to keep the conversation going where he wants it. “Because you – ”

“Sherlock.” Her eyes are gentle, but her smile is pitying. “I wish you weren’t – whatever you are.”

She knows, of course.

Janine is a smart woman. Sherlock is a damnably obvious fool. He clenches one fist under the table, wondering if his plans to destroy Magnussen will go awry this easily, swirling down the drain because he can’t keep his conflicted feelings hidden. Mycroft will be so very glad, Sherlock supposes with bitter anger. Magnussen escapes, so easily, and the ghost of John Watson haunts Sherlock wherever he goes.

John is not dead. Sherlock is the one who died.

“It’s okay,” Janine is saying, quiet. Kind. Politeness, sneers Sherlock inwardly, is the worst social requirement. “We both know this isn’t what you want, not really.”

It’s not worth arguing. Sherlock remains silent, and Janine continues, “You’re a famous detective. I’m not…an interest, for you. So why come to me, why invite me to one of the most upscale restaurants in London? To apologize for unbecoming conduct at a wedding? Please, Mr. Holmes, I’m not an idiot.”

“You most certainly are not,” mumbles Sherlock.

Janine fiddles idly with her napkin, looking down at it instead of making eye contact. “You’re after my employer,” she says calmly, and Sherlock can’t help but react, eyes widening violently.

“I don’t,” he starts, “Think you should assume things like that,” but Janine isn’t done speaking yet. Oh, she is far from being an idiot.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen is a terrible man,” she says in a calm voice. “He is a blackmailer and a crook. I am his secretary. You are a detective. Let’s play connect-the-dots, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“You’re interested in pursuing a relationship with me.” Delicate phrasing, Sherlock notes. “But not for the sake of the relationship. You want something from me, maybe information, about my boss.”

“You’re laying a lot of cards on the table,” says Sherlock, a warning note in his tone. If Janine is not who he thinks she is, she could ruin all his plans here and now.

“You have yet to put down a single one.”

Two pairs of eyes make contact, one dark, the other pale iridescent. Sherlock can pinpoint the moment when Janine makes the decision to trust him. Magnussen must have something on her, something big, if she wants him out of play like this.

Sherlock decides he doesn’t care what Janine’s motives are.

“I fold,” Sherlock says. “You’ve already shown my hand.”

The light in Janine’s eyes could be dangerous if Sherlock didn’t know that it is directed not at him, but at Magnussen.

“I do believe your courtship has won me over, Mr. Holmes,” she smiles. The detective reaches across the table and takes her hand in his.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Sherlock.”

\---

_After the first kiss, it is as if an unseen barrier dissolves in John’s mind, letting through a barrage of dream sequences – or memories – in which his feelings for Sherlock are far from platonic. He finds himself mired in these scenes every time he closes his eyes. John awakes in a cold sweat several times a night, Mary beside him. He can feel the heat of her nearness, but he knows that as soon as he lets his eyes shut again he will be far from her._

_Mary starts to notice his conflicted manner._

_John sleeps more than usual._

_The scenes are myriad, often short and fragmented. Upon waking, John is hard-pressed to remember the contents of his dreams. A sensation, a touch of lips or a brush of fingertips, will linger on his mind. But a few memories – fantasies? he doesn’t know what to call them, now – burn themselves into his brain like print on a page._

_There is one scene where the two of them are in a cab. They are on their way home from a case. John is laughing, and even Sherlock’s rumbling chuckle makes itself heard. Endorphin high, adrenaline pumping through their veins._

_John feels with all the intensity of an awkward teenager. The streets flash by outside, and he and Sherlock make eye contact one too many times within a span of time. Then, as if in accord, they both turn to look out the windows, their casual conversation dying out._

_On the ratty cushions of the cab, hands crawl towards each other._

_Sherlock’s skin is cold, as John expected. The two of them twine their fingers together and John’s heart beats like it’s going to jump out of his chest._

_This dream he remembers fully when he wakes up. He thinks that maybe it is real. He wonders how much of anything is real, and at breakfast when Mary asks him what’s wrong he cannot meet her gaze._

\---

John and Sherlock build a careful routine over the weeks that follow. It amounts to this: John will meet Sherlock at Baker Street every Friday evening, the day that Sherlock is most likely to have a case for the two of them to go out on. They will solve the case together, then dine at Angelo’s. John will depart for his own home, but not before he has sat in his chair in the flat for at least an hour, reading the paper while Sherlock conducts an experiment or some other idle work. They chat quietly, as if everything is normal, and they do their best not to point out the gaps in John’s knowledge or the awkward pauses in their interactions. During the rest of the week, they keep texting to a minimum.

This routine has been taking place for seven weeks before factors conspire to bring John into contact with Janine.

Janine’s visits are much more common than John’s, to Sherlock’s inward disappointment. But Janine is necessary. Janine is the key to taking down Magnussen. If Sherlock has to kiss Janine sometimes in front of the flat, or if he has to indulge her in other public displays of affection, it is all for the best. After all, she knows what kind of man he is, and she is not unreasonable.

Janine does not come with Sherlock on cases. She is not a fan of crime scenes. She confesses on more than one occasion that, although bodies do not make her squeamish, she quite frankly doesn’t see the appeal and would rather curl up at home with a nice book. Ironically, she usually reads murder mysteries. Sherlock does not bring this point up.  
Sherlock does not tell John about Janine; there is no need to. Because John’s visits are oriented around cases, and Janine’s are exactly the opposite, the two do not meet.

Until one chilly Friday afternoon, when John turns up at Baker Street at just past five and Sherlock has no cases. Janine is in his bedroom. John knocks lightly at the door and Sherlock feels something akin to mild terror run through him.

“Hello, John,” he says upon opening the door. John steps inside, not even taking his coat off in obvious anticipation of a case.

“So,” says the shorter man. “What’ll it be tonight? Homicide? String of robberies? Ambiguous suicide, maybe – we haven’t had one of those in a while.” A wry grin twists his face, subtle recognition of the fact that this is not how other people live. Other people do not meet up to go to crime scenes, do not discuss murder like the day’s weather. Other people do not jump off of buildings and leave their friends with missing pieces.

“About that,” says Sherlock. “I’ve begged Lestrade, I’ve checked the papers and I’ve even contacted Mycroft. London is determined to be crime-free today – at least, free of anything that warrants my attention.”

There is a brief, uncomfortable silence broken only by John slowly pronouncing the word “Oh.” He looks down, shuffling his feet.

“Do you – ” begins Sherlock, at the same time that John starts to ask, “Should I – ” The detective stops, and motions for John to continue.

“Do you want me to go?” asks John quietly. Sherlock wonders where John has gotten the idea that he is not wanted. The contrary is true; Sherlock is the one who feels that he is stealing John, that he is pulling him away from the ordinary life that he has built during the detective’s absence.

“Stay,” is Sherlock’s only response.

To John’s credit, he stays.

The flat is warm, a fire crackles in the fireplace, and Sherlock and John sit in their chairs across from each other. Everything seems normal. Sherlock pretends not to notice John’s moment of hesitation as he sits down, and John pretends not to notice Sherlock’s anxiously twitching fingers, and both of them do an excellent job of saying nothing about the awkward silence filling the room. Sherlock even begins to think that maybe something will be accomplished tonight – maybe he will get a few more tidbits out of John about what memories he has recovered – when Janine emerges from Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Sherl,” she says, because they have advanced to that point in their fake relationship, “Was that you I heard talking out here a minute ago?” Her bare feet pad from the wood floor of the hallway onto a rug in the living room. Sherlock swivels his head slowly to witness her inevitable entrance, but his eyes dart sideways to pick up John’s reaction.

“Oh, you’ve got a visitor!” exclaims Janine. “Hello, John!”

“Janine,” comes the response. Old John – John with all his memories intact, without the hidden pain of Sherlock’s fall haunting his every step – that John would have reacted with surprise, with shock. Maybe with a hint of jealousy behind the disbelief, if Sherlock’s past observations and subliminal wishes are accurate. But Old John is dead. New John furrows his brow in confusion, looks at Sherlock, and opens his mouth to speak.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Sherlock winces at the words. He does his best to cover the reaction. “Yes, well, you evidently do not know many things about me, John.”

The barb hits home, as John sits back in his chair, hurt clear on his face. Sherlock wishes he did not have to do this, but setting John off-balance is the only way to show Sherlock and Janine’s relationship in a plausible light. Even if John does not remember much at all, a minimum of thought will bring him to realize Sherlock is not one for girlfriends.

John clears his throat and regains his composure. “Well, it’s good to see you, Janine,” he says, all politeness and courtesy. “I, um,” his gaze is fixed with determination on her face, despite the fact that she is wearing nothing more than one of Sherlock’s longer shirts, “Didn’t know you and Sherlock were acquainted.”

“We met at your wedding, actually,” says Janine lightly. Something crosses John’s face that Sherlock cannot read. “To be honest, I kind of thought the two of you were at odds. I certainly didn’t see you talking at the reception.”

Janine has always been sore that Sherlock has not elaborated on the nature of his and John’s relationship. Now she is pressing her advantage, searching for information. Sherlock bites his lip. John is vulnerable to Janine’s tactics, as he is already emotionally reeling and the tension in the room is high.

“We do alright,” says John. His voice sounds almost defensive. “We solve crimes. Like we used to.”

“Oh, yes! I’d forgotten, you two were quite the detective duo, yeah?” Janine looks lightly from one to the other as if she is missing the charged atmosphere.

“Yeah,” John replies.

“Okay, now listen. Since Sherl here doesn’t really like to talk to me about cases,” and that’s brilliant, even if everything else is going to pieces, the expression on John’s face at hearing the detective’s nickname is really priceless, “Tell me. What was it like, working with him? What are his methods like, you know, up close and personal?” Janine gives John a conspiratory look. “Ever have to dissolve any fights over his rudeness?”

John has a lot of different laughs and Sherlock has categorized them all. This one is nervous. “Well, you know. People don’t tend to like Sherlock that much.” It’s a clumsy response, and John knows it, but the doctor looks irrationally panicked at attempting to answer Janine’s question. Sherlock wonders why; surely even John’s bits and pieces of memory are enough to fabricate an answer.

“We, uh. He really is a genius, you know that, and…well, to explain a case and such would probably take a longer time than you want to sit around and hear it.” John chuckles again, pure nerves escaping via his vocal chords. “Lots of times, it actually turned out to be really…” He has the air of someone trying with desperation not to use a particular word. Sherlock wonders what the word is. He wonders why it is making John look so much like a deer caught in headlights.

“…Interesting,” finishes John lamely. He takes a breath and pauses, obviously wondering if Janine is going to make him elaborate further, but she knows when to stop. She laughs, a light peal of something sophisticated.

“Well, I won’t push you,” she says. “And I certainly don’t want to take up too much of your time, right John? I’ll just be in the bedroom, Sherl, if you need me.” She sashays off, and Sherlock is absolutely certain that John picked up on the carefully-worded reference to _the_ bedroom.

Old John would have taken a moment to fix the full strength of his gaze on Sherlock and ask, _You've got a girlfriend?!_

New John sits uncomfortably in his chair and leaves a half hour early.

\---

 _Can’t make this Friday,_ says the text. _Doctor’s appointment with Mary._ Sherlock reads the words from his phone dispassionately, but inside something wobbles, threatens to snap. He grips the phone tightly and types out a response.

_The baby, of course. SH_

_Yes, the baby,_ replies John, and something about those letters combined in just that order makes Sherlock wants to spit. It has been five months since Sherlock returned, and rather than growing slowly back into the detective’s life, John seems to be getting less and less concerned with remembering his time with Sherlock. Meanwhile, new emotions are eating away at Sherlock, and he wants so much to know what John is thinking.

Maybe it is these new emotions that convince him to do something unwise, to bring up a dangerous topic by text. He and John have been safely avoiding anything approaching feelings for some time now, but Sherlock is new to this sort of thing and he is fed up.

_Does any of this have something to do with Janine? SH_

_Why would it?_ responds John quickly, and Sherlock does his best to type with as much speed as the other man.

_You’ve been extra short with me since you found out that the two of us were engaged in a relationship. I don’t assume to know why, but perhaps you have some issue with her that I was not previously aware of. SH_

_Uh, no, don’t think so._

After some consideration, Sherlock changes tack, responding with, _Well. If that isn’t the problem, what is it? Is it something to do with the recovery – or lack thereof – of your memories? SH_

There. With such a blunt statement, John will have to take a stance one way or another.

_They haven’t been bothering me._

Sherlock sighs with exasperation into the empty flat. “For god’s sake, John!” he exclaims aloud. “One would think you didn’t want to remember!” His fingers are already tapping away at the phone again, hitting send on another message.

_So do you remember why you’ve forgotten? SH_

Sherlock can picture John gritting his teeth as he types out his own response. _No,_ reads the terse text message. It is followed by one reading, _Can’t you just tell me? I don’t like it, the way you hang my own memories in front of me like some sort of prompt._

 _What do you mean, some sort of prompt?_ responds Sherlock quickly. _What am I prompting you to do? I just want to know how much you can recall; after all, I did seem to cause this phenomenon. SH_

He regrets the message as soon as he sends it. He has said too much. John is not quite so unobservant as Sherlock might hope at times, and the text he gets back within a minute is evidence of that. Sherlock allows a slight grimace to cross his face as he reads the words on his phone screen.

_You caused it?_

_You never answered my question. SH_

_I think I’m the who deserves answers here._

_Tell me what you think I’m trying to get you to do, and I’ll explain my remark to you. But be warned that I still don’t plan on explaining the entire incident. With your condition, I think it’s better that you recall things of your own volition, or the process might be hindered. SH_

Misdirection does not work well against someone as straightforward as John. If Sherlock was hoping that John would decline to answer, and therefore would not require an answer in return, he is proven brutally wrong when another text shows up on his phone.

_I think you don’t want me to leave you, and you’re worried that something in my memories might make me leave. But here’s the thing, Sherlock – the reason why I don’t want to talk about what I remember with you is because I don’t know if half of it is even real. So the joke’s on you; even if I could remember what you’re afraid of, I wouldn’t know whether to believe it or not._

Sherlock takes a couple of minutes to process this long and revealing text from John before he replies. _So as to uphold my end of the bargain,_ he types, _I will tell you that I hold myself personally response for your loss of memory. I will also tell you that I did not expect the reaction, and that I in no way was prepared for it. SH_

 _Nor did I want this to happen,_ he adds, almost as an afterthought.

 _I’d say ‘neither did I,’_ answers John, _But I can’t recall._

Neither of them has anything left to say after that, and after a while Sherlock leaves his phone on the kitchen table and goes to work on his experiments.

\---

“What time do you think Magnussen will be out of his office?” Sherlock asks his not-really-girlfriend, one night over dinner.

“What time do you plan on going?” Janine responds.

Sherlock’s first reflex is to answer, _Whenever John is available,_ but he stops himself and reflects. John has a wife to look after now, and a child on the way. Is it fair to drag him into this case, far more dangerous than any other? Is it fair to give him the choice of whether to come or not, when Sherlock knows full well that if he mentions danger John will be there?

“Do you have his schedule?” asks Sherlock finally, still thinking. Is it so wrong that he wants to drag John away from Mary as much as possible? His fingers clench on the edge of the tablecloth. Janine gives him a knowing look.

“Of course I do, Sherl.” She takes a spoonful of soup and lifts it to her mouth.

Sherlock texts John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to go up! I'm currently working on another fic, as well. I've got the ending of that one planned out in advance, whereas this one is just kind of going where it will, so this fic will probably update less frequently until I've finished the other fic. That being said, I will never let a fic go unfinished. And as always, thanks for reading!


	5. Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop," says Sherlock, but the words pass his lips too slowly.
> 
> "Vatican cameos," he calls in John's direction, but John does not remember, can never remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm not gonna lie. I half-assed the end of this fic so badly. I just wasn't motivated by the idea any more, and I kind of messed up the first chapters, so I just brought it to an end. Sorry for anyone who cared.  
> You can still read it, though, if you'd like. I'm just warning you not to have any great expectations.  
> Sorry.

"You want me to what?" asks John over steaming coffee. They have broken their careful rules and met outside of Baker Street, in a lonely café five blocks away. Sherlock wears a white shirt under his coat and John keeps checking his phone.

"You heard me the first time, John," says Sherlock. "I want you to break into Charles Augustus Magnussen's office with me and see what he is hiding. For a case. It's not like I'm asking you to commit random acts of breaking and entering." He has no coffee of his own; he has given up the pretense. After all, it does no good in keeping John here.

John clears his throat. "Hm. Yes, well - I'm not sure if I should leave Mary. She's been sick, lately, and..." He trails off. His eyes are shadowed.

"She's been angry with you."

John looks up, quick, birdlike.

"She's been angry with you for spending so much time with me," Sherlock elaborates, and John moves his head in a reluctant nod.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he says, "It's just that - she is my wife, after all, and you're just...I don't know. I don't know what you are. She thinks she knows, and she hates you. Why?"

Sherlock taps pale knuckles on the table and pretends to misunderstand John. "I don't know why she imagines that she knows me. I had never met her before the evening when you proposed to her. Perhaps she - "

"You know damn well what I mean, Sherlock. Why does she hate you?" Sherlock meets John's gaze again, and the blue eyes are bitter and hard-edged. "Who are you? What did you do that made Mary hate you without even knowing you?"

Sherlock shrugs lightly. "Perhaps if you come with me to Magnussen's, you'll remember."

A thin, angry smile. "You prat."

Sherlock sweeps away from the table, coat billowing behind him.

\---

John tells Mary that he works late at the surgery. She gets bitter lines about the mouth when he mentions it: "Sorry, Mary, I've got to stay late tonight. I'm sorry, love. Really," and he can hear even over the phone how her voice goes cold and sharp. He wonders if these are the hormones talking, if she was so easily angered before he married her. He wonders if she just worked harder to hide it before.

He sits outside the hospital and waits as the sky darkens and the air cools. He drinks cheap coffee, sometimes, or eats a packet of stale crisps. He'll walk, aimlessly, wandering London with little purpose and no certainty.

"It was busy," he tells Mary when he gets in, late. "Had to work overtime. Tomorrow, love, tomorrow we'll go out for that dinner."

But he walks more, and sees Mary less. When he does talk to her, she is angry, sharp. Her blonde hair seems razor-edged and her eyes are harsh. John doesn't meet her eyes, mostly, because it's remarkable how quickly the woman he loved has changed.

The woman he loves. It isn't past tense; he still loves her.

He tells himself this as the hours stretch out and he begins to arrive home after Mary is already asleep. He slips into the bed beside her and he dreams.

 _"Come at once if convenient," murmurs Sherlock, and the sharp curve of his face softens, blends._ _He is the Woman, red lips and painted fingernails, and she smiles at John with the predatory fierceness of a hyena. He wants to back away, but he thinks that maybe if he lingers and hopes long enough, the Woman will give Sherlock back to him. He wants Sherlock back._

_"We're not a couple," he remembers himself saying._

_"Yes you are," breathes the Woman._

_And John agrees: yes, we are. He remembers Sherlock's breath hot on his neck and Sherlock's fingers twined with his and Sherlock, stretched across the sofa in the early hours of the morning, looking for all the world like a petulant child. And John remembers looking down at the detective's sleeping features and brushing a curl of dark hair away from his forehead. This memory John knows is real, knows with a certainty that he does not have when he thinks of anything else._

_Does he love Mary like this?_

_Did_ _he ever?_

_But then, before his eyes, peaceful sleeping Sherlock becomes bleeding dead Sherlock and his head is split open between the dark, downy curls. John doesn't understand. He hasn't seen this image before, hasn't dredged up the memory that accompanies it from some dark place in his mind. And as Dream Sherlock bleeds out before him on the sofa - the sofa that has become hard cement - John wonders again why he ever forgot._

_Sherlock's cold, dead eyes look up at him and he wakes up shouting._

He tells Mary it is another Afghanistan nightmare. He says it is a side effect of working so late, that the stress is bringing back images he would rather forget.

"I'm sorry," he says to Mary when she shouts. "It was busy. I couldn't get away. They needed me."

She won't speak to him for days on end, now, and John finds with some dread that it is easier that way.

\---

 _I want to remember,_ says John's text, and Sherlock's heart leaps.

_I'll come to Magnussen's. I have a day off work tomorrow. If we go early in the evening I can tell Mary I had to work the late shift and she'll understand._

There is something in the tone of John's text that gives Sherlock pause, and he types out his response with care.

_Why do you suddenly want to remember? SH_

_You died, didn't you?_ asks John, and Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

By the time he composes a sufficiently detached answer - _Obviously I did not die, Jo_ _hn, as I am still very much alive today. However, I am curious as to exactly what you remember happening. Did you dream it, like you did with your other memories? SH_ \- John has turned his phone off and does not reply.

\---

Magnussen is in his office. Sherlock did not expect him to be there, but he is. He spares a single second to address the Janine that lurks in his mind palace: _You lied to me. Why did you do that?_

Magnussen, ever the blackmailer, nonetheless has a gun. Sherlock wonders why, wonders if Janine informed her boss that he would have visitors tonight.

"Stop," says Sherlock, but the words pass his lips too slow.

"Vatican cameos," he calls in John's direction, but John does not remember, can never remember. His eyes are panicked as the bullet takes him in the chest.

Sherlock remains, over John's bleeding body, as Magnussen flees.

"I don't remember," breathes John desperately, "I don't remember. But I want to."

Mary doesn't show up at the hospital.

When he wakes up, he is presented with divorce papers. His face is not surprised, but sour. "I should have known," he murmurs to Sherlock. "I was blind. You blinded me."

\---

On the night when John finally remembers, it comes back in vivid detail. The cases, yes, the shadowy memories of jobs and villains fill in the empty spaces in the back of his mind. But he is too busy gaping at the horror that bursts to the front - Sherlock falling. Sherlock jumping. His coat, flying out behind him as he falls and Sherlock's face, bloodied and lifeless on the pavement and John screaming for him. John screaming, and then, a long time later, John deciding to forget.

He wakes up and it is all clear. He and Sherlock were never a couple. Their lips never touched, nor did their hands link together in the back of a cab. All the remembered kisses and whispered promises are only products of John's fuddled imagination. He knows this now, and his face flushes.

Sherlock, raising his head from the other side of the bed, reads in John's face that he realizes.

"Why did you let me think we were...?" asks John, and Sherlock reaches out to take his hand.

"It was the better thing to believe," says Sherlock.

John remembers, and he agrees.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And again, thanks very much to bitterness_is_a_paralytic for permission to use their au, and thanks to my beta reader (you know who you are) who doesn't have an ao3 account.  
> Sorry if the end of this was disappointing. I just lost motivation, but couldn't leave the fic unfinished.  
> Have a nice day.


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